


drizzle

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [29]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Queerplatonic relationship, Shadowbringers Spoilers, love but in a soft way, nice shirts but worn very sadly, opera aka an insult to music according to thancred, touch-starved thancred strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Touch is a language of love, and interconnection. In Thancred's case, some quiet introspection.Because he feels freer to do that, now.





	drizzle

“Just for those dark circles under your eyes.” Ikael daubs at the sensitive skin under Thancred's eye sockets with a cotton swab as he keeps his gaze lifted upwards, trying to relax. “Not that you do not have _lovely_ eyes, sína. You have beautiful eyes, yeah? But you do look like a thunderstorm sometimes when you are not smiling.”

“It’s the stress,” Thancred mutters, resisting the urge to brush aside a lock of hair when it falls across the bridge of his nose. “And the lack of glamours.”

Ikael _tchs_ at him. “You do not need glamours! You are very lovely as you are, even when you are old.” He moves the fallen piece of hair back with gentle fingers, and Thancred's eyelids flutter. “There we go. You do not even need this, yeah? Even I do not do makeup when I am not trying to cover up a bruise. And besides, you have very good skin.”

“Thank you.” Still, vanity is a vice, and Thancred has come to him for a reason. Sleepless nights—away from Ikael, he has tried to stop reminding himself—do not do wonders for one’s complexion, nor does being told that he “looks like amaro shite, mate,” or being asked numerous times by Ryne if he is angry at her. No, he is not angry at her. Yes, that is a somewhat annoying question five times in a row.

But Ikael is back now. A good solution to the majority of Thancred's more paltry problems; he cannot simply acquire Ikael-for-hires whenever he so desires. He can seek _other_ types of comfort, and against his better (and somewhat doubtful) judgment, he had, but when he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of_ I wonder what Ikael is going to make for dinner when he gets back,_ even in the middle of said indelicate activities, he had abandoned that path. And the poor girl, with a perhaps insensitive toss of a coin.

Thancred had never thought that that would be the way Ikael ruined his sex life.

“There. Finished!” Ikael pulls back, smiling up to his eyes. Thancred smiles back automatically, struck with a sudden pulse of relief that he had returned so promptly from the Source. The Exarch has been doing all he can to help stabilize the… wobbliness of time when Ikael is not here, so they do not have to wait any longer than they have to for him to return. There is not much he _can_ do, but even so, it seems to be helping. Thancred owes the fellow some… artisanal tail oil or something.

“Thank you kindly.” He gets up, pausing to give Ikael a quick, tight squeeze—oh, he can do that whenever he wants with Ikael, it is lovely—and getting a somewhat confused back pat in return before going to the clothing rack that has been provided for them.

“So what do you think? The grey shirt, or the black?” Thancred holds both up, craning his neck to look them over. “Hm. I quite fancy the black, I think.”

“Then wear it. It has a nicer cut around the shoulders, anyhow.” Ikael tugs lightly at his ear as Thancred nods in approval and slips off his tunic to change. He sinks slowly into the chair Thancred had just occupied. “Hey, uh…”

Thancred pops the collar of the shirt before arching his neck and beginning to button it up. “Yes?”

“Did you, um…. Did something happen when I was gone, or something? You, ah… aren’t usually this… lively.”

Thancred glances up at him. Shrugs. “Perhaps your energy lends itself to liveliness.”

It does not. Ikael says, “Uh-huh,” with a dubious look. In fairness, it is not a very good excuse—Ikael’s energy mostly just lends itself to annoyance, or irritated glances up from books, or curious baked sweets-seeking sniffing, or _For gods’ sakes, Ikael, I am trying to write a report_s. Mostly it is he who has more than enough energy for everyone in the room. But Thancred is allowed to play a soft fool when it is just the two of them, is he not?

“Did you, um.” Ikael sounds as if he cannot quite believe he is asking the question. He continues nonetheless, “Did you… _miss_ me? Is that why you’re…?”

Thancred narrows his eyes. “Is that a crime?” he inquires lightly. He finishes with the last button, double-checking that his collar is popped before he begins to search for a nice pair of trousers. Something that won’t require suspenders, because he does not want to look _too_ idiotic.

“Oh, I… um, no! Not at all. It is just, uh… unexpected.”

Ikael does not say anything else. His voice has not risen into that overly-enthused tone he uses around people, but instead remains in its lower, more genuine scratchy register. Thancred glances over at him in time to see him wrinkle his nose at nothing and scratch between his legs.

Thancred turns his back once more. “If it is… not a welcome change,” he says, a bit stiff despite himself, “I can be ‘grumpy’ again.”

“Oh! No, please! It is very welcome. It is sweet.” Ikael sounds as if he is smiling. “I just did not… I didn’t think you’d. Well.”

Thancred feels his ears heat. “Clearly, I did,” he grumbles. He pushes through the clothing rack to distract himself, his eyes scanning over it but not taking anything in. Clearly enough to Ikael, apparently. Hmph. Well if he does not… Maybe Thancred shouldn’t…

“If you don’t want me to hug you—” he turns around and says at the same time Ikael goes, “I’m just glad you’re—” and then blinks rapidly when he is interrupted. His mouth opens in a little _o_.

“No, Thancred, please, I—” Ikael gets up, biting his lip in a lousy attempt to hide a smile. He strides over and gives Thancred a warm squeeze, catching him only slightly by surprise. But then he is wrapped in warm, solid pressure, felt cleanly without his coat as a barrier, and it smells so nice…

“I’m glad you want to hug me,” Ikael says as he pulls back. He is wearing that same expression he puts on when he speaks to Ryne. Thancred's ears redden further, although he keeps his reaction off his face. “I’ll be glad to share hugs with you as much as you ever want, yeah?”

Thancred clears his throat. “I won’t need them that often,” he contends, tipping his chin up.

Ikael’s smile slants. He rubs an open hand over Thancred's shoulder, down his arm… back up again, squeezes, then down, slow as tar. _Shouldn’t have said ‘need,’ you fool_, Thancred scolds himself, but he is too busy fighting the urge to lean into the touch to listen.

He fails, maybe a little on purpose. He takes a chance—because he _trusts_ Ikael—and ducks down, shrugging both of his arms around himself again. Alright. Okay. Fine. Gods, fine. Thancred may be a fool, but he will admit he is one starved for touch. And why should that be? Can they not simply stay like this forever? Can Thancred not be wrapped in Ikael for all of eternity?

He fancies that if Emet-Selch had had an Ikael, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so genocidal.

“I missed you too, _sína_,” Ikael mumbles into his neck, soft and affectionate. “I always miss you.”

Yes, Thancred is beginning to understand how he feels. His grip tightens. Thankfully, Ikael does not seem to be in any hurry to separate them.

Thancred is the one who finally does, albeit reluctantly. He barely has to tilt his head to get a kiss on the cheek, and he blushes from it—sentimental old fool. He needs a distraction before he burns himself from the inside. He reaches down to take Ikael’s right hand, squeezes it, brings it up to study.

Its callouses are hard, its skin tight, crossed with white lines where it tore then mended. The nails are pink, white, and short, one chipped.

“Why do you not like when people hold your hand?” Thancred questions, eyes flicking up to meet Ikael’s warmer ones. So warm. Thancred is too cool for him, if he lies about it.

“Hm.” Ikael tilts his head, considering his answer. After a moment, he says, “Do you know when you feel something against the grain—like when you stroke velvet or fur, and it goes the wrong way?”

Thancred nods. Ikael continues, “It feels like that for me, although not in my fingertips. In my elbow, a little. Mostly in my head.”

Thancred winces. “Sounds a bit awful,” he comments, letting go of his hand.

Ikael giggles. “It is not so bad, really,” he says. He smooths his hands over Thancred's shoulders, pressing the fabric of the expensive shirt against his skin and muscle. Through it, his touch is warm, soothing. He lifts up the hand Thancred has just held, lightly drags the back of it over his cheekbone. “Sometimes, if they are warm, I do not mind. But sweaty?” He makes a face. “Ew. That is worse.”

Thancred quirks a smile. “So you’ve complained. Numerous times. Now, ah… that is enough sentimentality for one afternoon, I think.” Not that he has a problem with it, especially not right now when Ikael has just come back. “We’ll be late.”

~*~

Ikael is sitting alone, on a rock, in a cave. He is silence and coolness and pain and understanding, calm and still in solitude. In front of him, cut off at the cave’s mouth, rain pours.

Silence, understanding.

But pain.

“I still miss you, you know,” he says. His accent bends awkwardly around the last word, and he clears his throat, reshuffles his native language in his head before trying to speak it again. “_Ai._ I remember when we used to watch the rain, Mamae. You would sneak me down south, far further down than the tribe would let us. And we would sit, and when it was dark, it would rain. And you would say that it was raining for just the two of us. Do you remember?”

Silence. Nothing but the rain, falling and pooling into the earth, seeping down into its core.

Ikael swallows. “Fo—for just… the two of us, because the heavens had been waiting for us to arrive. So they could put on their special show and we could watch it in secret.”

He bows his head. He wonders where she is now. He hopes she is safe. Hopes the war hasn’t hurt her.

He wishes he could see her again. He misses her so.

~*~

The opera house is busier than Thancred thought it would be. It is certainly not the part of Eulmore he paid the most attention to when he was doing reconnaissance, but he should have a better sense of where the citizens spend their time. Perhaps their priorities have shifted since the city’s overthrowal, then.

Not that he minds crowds, especially not in his line of business. He is only worried for Ikael, since _he_ very much does. Five years are not enough to dull the sharper memories of the mind, and Thancred remembers hands fisting in his shirt and breaths tripping over one another and panic in eyes and body and voice. So he stops before entering the crowd because he is… concerned.

Ikael’s fingers drum against his forearm, where his hand rests. “Something the matter, _sína_?” he inquires lightly.

Thancred looks at him. “Aren’t there too many… people for you?” he asks.

Ikael tilts his head, then shakes it. “You are with me,” he says.

Thancred pulls his arm free and slides it around Ikael’s waist instead. He would rather be closer, he thinks, should anything happen.

As he goes back to scanning the crowd to search for a path through, he thinks he sees Ikael smile.

~*~

Opera is bloody boring.

And barely understandable, to boot. Theatre is much more catered to Thancred's tastes. Musical theatre especially, if he is drunk enough to admit it. But the invitations were _free_, Thancred, and he _has_ to go, because I cannot very well be in two places at once, can I? _Yes, Alphinaud, you have a twin sister,_ Thancred had not said back. Pah.

At the very least he is with Ikael. That fact alone makes this entire excursion worthwhile, from the dressy shirts to the uptight nobles to the insult to music. Ikael seems to be watching the stage very attentively, although his right ear occasionally swivels towards Thancred, as if to check that he is… breathing, or something. Odd fellow. Thancred cannot help but feel a twinge of fondness whenever it happens.

The vampire count gets stabbed, and Ikael politely echoes the gasp that ripples through the auditorium. He leans back in his seat, uncrossing his legs. Thancred, restless and bored, looks at him straight-on, attention abandoning the stage altogether. Ikael squeezes his hand, and begins to stroke the back of it soothingly with his thumb.

Thancred's shoulders slump. He reclines in his seat and lets his eyelids gradually weigh themselves down, the rest of his senses fading with his vision. Until all he is aware of is the pad of Ikael’s thumb caressing his hand, slow and gentle and comforting.

~*~

Thancred's eyes open when raucous applause assaults his ears. He pulls a face, turning his head into his—pillow? Headrest? He is lying down—as the lights flicker back on in the auditorium.

A hand threads through his hair. “Welcome back, _sína_,” he hears. The voice comes from above him, so he must be in Ikael’s lap. He grunts in response, unwilling to go back to the world they came from (and also deal with the stitch in his side). Ikael makes a soft noise and squeezes his shoulder.

Thancred sighs before straightening up. Ikael’s touch drops from him as he runs a hand through his hair. “Most boring four bells I’ve spent on this star,” he grouses.

“Well, you spent most of the second half asleep.” Ikael’s eyes crinkle in a smile. “Next time I will bring a pillow.”

Thancred waits for the _yeah?_ so he can agree with it, and when it does not come, dips his head in a nod. “Your little stick legs do not help my beauty sleep,” he banters, although he knows they are mostly toned muscle. (Even Ikael’s arse you could bounce a coin off of. Thancred wagers it is a miqo’te thing.)

Ikael mock-wrinkles his nose. “Hey! My legs are rock-hard muscle,” he complains. His smile returns, and Thancred finally lets himself ease one back.

They are getting glared at by the people next to them. They rise from their seats and make to the end of their row to leave, and Thancred says, “You are cooking dinner, right?”

Ikael settles him with a look. Thancred grins, bright and fleeting.

“You had better have enough money for soup, Thancred, I swear,” Ikael mutters as they near the exit. “Or I’ll cook _you_ into dinner.”

Thancred takes his arm. On impulse, he leans over and lightly pecks him on the cheek. “Lost everything you had at the markets again, have you?”

A furry tail brushes against his legs, companionable and affectionate. “All of those poor things need a home,” Ikael replies.

“The lost animals or the clothing?” Another crowd blocks their way to the open night air, bottlenecked this time. Thancred makes sure his grip on Ikael is secure as they make their way through, slipping his fingers inside the edge of his sleeve to feel his pulse and ensure it does not rise.

“If you are going to make another smart comment about how I am what I buy, Thancred…” He is fine. He is still fine two minutes later. Good.

It is raining outside. Ikael gets this look of soft surprise on his face when he notices, and then it melts into a small, sad smile.

“The little place, with the seats by the windows,” he whispers, pressing his nose into Thancred's neck. “There won’t be many people there at this hour, so we can have most of it to ourselves. Some privacy.”

“Something we both value,” Thancred murmurs back. He listens for thunder and hears none, so slips his arms out of his coat and drapes it over the both of them. They dart through the rain; quick, giggling, hurrying to the little shop in the dark. Save for them and the soft drizzle against the cobblestones, there is silence. No one else is around, not at this hour.

But they prefer it that way.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please leave feedback if you can i'd love to hear what you think! <3


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